The Criminal Mind
by mf32
Summary: When Jane Watson herself is the victim of a crime, she tries to find the criminal...


The criminal face

Disclaimer: Freely adapted from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories, and from "Adventures in the Secret Service of the Post-Office Deaprtment" by P. H. Woodward, in The Lock and Key Library/Real Life, edited by Julian Hawthorne (retrieved from Project Gutenberg). both in the public domain.

Warnings: None.

A/N: sequel to "A Small Adventure". Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Return. Crime/mystery. And a big thank you to my wonderful husband and beta, Tim.

The criminal mind is a strange thing. The more I see of life, the more I realize that it really is true that everyone always thinks that they are in the right. The soldier on one side of a war, who is ready to fight and die for his country, is no less convinced of his moral rectitude that his counterpart with the bayonet just across no-man's-land.

And so it is with lawbreakers. I remember the faces of criminals who have just been caught: invariably they have a self-pitying, betrayed, or proud look; they never show a glimmer of realization that they have done wrong.

And so it is also with the next case I describe.

Musing on the facial expressions of those whom Sherlock Holmes and I had the good fortune to remove from their spheres of influence led me to wonder about the facial features of those same persons. I could not from memory find any physiognomical similarities between them, but I assumed that they must exist, having recently been much impressed with Sir Francis Galton's fascinating study "Composite Portraits," in which he superimposed lithographs of several criminals, in an attempt to learn exactly what a "criminal face" would look like.

I thought at the time that physiognomy must indeed be an important key to catching lawbreakers. Little did I know that very soon I would have a chance to test that well-respected theory.

Late one summer afternoon, not long after Cassandra's and my small adventure in Canterbury, I returned home from my small women's and children's medical practice and set the mail which Mrs. Hudson had left for me on a side table. My feline friend was present, and the moment I put the letters down, she jumped up on the table and began to scratch energetically at them, knocking several of them to the floor.

"Hey, you," I said in mock horror, "what are you doing?" Of course, she ignored me and continued her solicitous ministrations to the missives.

As this was not her usual behavior with regard to my mail, I picked up the letters and looked at them more carefully. One does not lightly regard the scratchings of the prophetess Cassandra! And, lo and behold, there was something amiss with one of the pieces of mail. I had received a birthday greeting from my sister in a small village to the west; it had been opened and then poorly resealed! In addition, the small token gift that we habitually send to each other for such occasions was missing.

I was shocked, and not a little incensed. The sanctity of my mail had been violated! I felt almost as if someone had broken into my home and stolen my personal possessions.

Meanwhile, Cassandra perfunctorily hopped down from the table and sedately crossed the room to her usual seat on a low fabric-covered table, from which she could survey her domain without being easily seen herself. I, not so calm, resolved that I would report this crime as soon as I could.

The very next afternoon I took advantage of a break between patients and went to Scotland Yard. I suppose such a small crime does not merit such specialized attention, but since I was known to some of the people there, I thought I might get a better response than at the local constabulary.

I was able to present my ruptured birthday letter to Detective Inspector Lestrade himself, communicating rather too effusively my chagrin at the objectionable invasion of privacy and theft. He asked me where my sister lives, and I told him Hay-on-Wye, near Clyro, on the Welsh border.

He sighed and said, "Ah, yes, we've had quite a few of these in the past few months. We've been trying to catch this mail thief for a while now, but our sticky-fingered friend is just a little too slippery for us. We could certainly do with a bit of advice from Mr. Sherlock Holmes about now."

I sadly registered my sympathy. His death among the slimy black cliffs and morbidly florid bloom of steam of Reichenbach Falls had left a hole in our lives in more ways than one.

I said, "Would it help to keep my letter as evidence?"

He replied, "No, Miss Watson, we already have dozens just like it." He handed it back to me and I took my leave, sharing his frustration at being powerless to stop this sly trickle of funds from a publicly trusted institution's care.

Over the next week or so, the unresolved problem of my rifled mail stayed with me, causing an irritation like an itch that keeps recurring throughout the day. I decided to try to do something about it, however small and ineffectual the effort might be. After some thought, I decided to visit my sister, traveling along the route that the mail must have taken between our two towns. As I went, I would stop at all the places where the mail spends the night (for surely, this work must take some time), and try to judge by their physiognomy who was the malicious ne'er-do-well who had stolen my birthday gift.

In preparation, I went to the local Postal Office and was able to learn the exact route of the mail from Hay-on-Wye to London, and the locations of its overnight resting places as it traveled. It turned out that the mail traveled by stagecoach along the King's Acre Road, passing near to my sister's town, until it was moved to rail transport at Hereford.

And so it was that I set out early the next week for Hay-on-Wye, putting a small sign on my office door referring any emergencies to a respected fellow doctor, and relying upon the ever-gracious Mrs. Hudson to feed Cassandra for a few days while I was away (as my little friend did not seem inclined to get into her traveling basket again so soon). As I rode along in train, then coach, I tried to practice my physiognomical skills, peering, I fear, too intently at those around me. At each stopping point of the coach, I got out - ostensibly to stretch my legs - but really to look surreptitiously at the officers of the local post offices, who were, in the smaller towns, the same persons as those who ran the local general stores.

After two days of this, I was getting tired, and was wearily browsing one of these small establishments in the charming country town of Whitney-on-Wye, which was about two-thirds of the way along the coach line to my sister's town. I was staring fascinated at the contents of its shelves, overstuffed with all the myriad fancied doo-dads and needed raw materials of daily life, when I finally spotted a proprieter whom I felt sure was up to no good. He was an elderly man, with a face pinched by hard work and bitterness, and several other features mentioned as being indicative of a criminal. Forgetting my weariness, I stood there for a minute, and, I confess, silently directed accusatory thoughts at him. Satisfied that I had at least mentally excoriated the man who had stolen my mail, I grew tired and turned to return to the coach - and bumped right into Detective Inspector Lestrade!

"My goodness, Inspector Lestrade, whatever are you doing here?" I cried, unthinkingly.

He took one look at me, glanced suspiciously at the store's proprietor, then stormed out of the little shop, slamming the door behind him.

Still shocked, but beginning to realize that I might have made a serious mistake, I followed him.

"I'm so sorry, Inspector Lestrade," I said, running beside him, "I had no idea that I would see you here. I hope I haven't harmed anything you might be working on?"

"Oh no, only entirely blown my cover and revealed to our prime suspect that he is under scrutiny," he said scathingly, his face beet red as he paced rapidly toward a nearby coach.

"Oh, I am sooo, sorry," I said again, breathlessly following him, "Can't I do anything to make it up?" I was mortified to think that I had hindered the very effort whose successful results I so desired myself.

"No, no, Miss Watson, just go home," Lestrade started to say, but then he stopped suddenly and turned to me. "On the other hand," he mercurially said, "you just may be able to help us."

"Oh please," I said woefully, "anything!"

At that, he frowned at me a bit, as if to say once again that he would never risk a civilian's safety, and especially would not directly involve one if he could help it. Then he asked me if I thought the store owner had noticed me.

"Oh no," I said, "I spoke with his daughter (a sweet girl, although the spitting image of her father), but was nearer the door with my back to the window when he came out from the back room."

"Good," he said, and a crafty smile began to creep across his wily face. "Do you remember what you did for us regarding Messrs. Hubble & Hune? How you watched the fugitive's hotel to ascertain if he was there?"

"Certainly, Inspector Lestrade," I replied.

"Well then, perhaps you can do something similar here. Nothing dangerous, mind you; just keep watch for a bit and telegram us if the older man makes any attempt to leave town before I can get another man out here."

Of course I was relieved and glad to do any little thing I could to assist the investigation that I had nearly ruined.

Now that we were resolved, I began feeling a bit tired again, and decided to see if I could get a cup of tea at The Boat Inn, a small Tudor-style structure across the single main road that constituted the central part of this small town, and where I assumed I would be staying the night, hopefully in a room facing the street. I asked Lestrade if he would accompany me, and he said, "I don't mind if I do," significantly more cheerful than just a short while ago.

As we were sipping our beverages at a rough table in the small but cozy common room, Lestrade explained more of the case to me. "I suppose there is no harm in your knowing," he said. He told me that letters were being rifled only along this one mail route, and that they had deduced that it must be happening along the portion of the route reached by coach only.

"You see, letters are bundled into paper packets, which are sealed with wax. Packets from London and the larger towns along the rail lines use metal seals to imprint the wax with a distinct, induplicable design, so the thief knows that he cannot touch them without being detected. But the small town post offices merely flatten their wax with the ends of rasps, producing an irregular nubby surface which is easy to reproduce.

"Ah, he'a a clever one. He cracks the wax seal, steams open letters, pilfers their contents, reseals them, and re-melts the wax to return the seal to wholeness, rolling a bumpy thimble across it to duplicate the tiny indentations made by the rasp.

"This rascal had us stumped for many months until recently he made one little slip - he used two different thimbles to repair one seal.

"Now you may know, Miss Watson, that although our time is an age of wonders, no two manufacturing machines are so well standardized that their output is identical exactly. These two thimble imprints on the wax seal were slightly different from each other, which led us to the conclusion that our thief must have pulled one from a box of thimbles, worked with it, replaced it, then, seeing a bare patch on the re-formed seal, picked up another one from the box to finish creating the needed texture. From this small discrepancy on just one packet envelope, and the fact that the average citizen does not own boxfulls of thimbles, we surmised that the thief must work at a general store along the mail route. There were two mail stops at which the post office was part of a general store, and only one of them sells thimbles!" Lestrade looked triumphantly at me and I exclaimed in wonder at their skillful detective work.

"So this is really the store?" I asked rhetorically. "You know, I had been thinking that the old man looked just the type - "  
"Oh no, no, no, it couldn't be him," he replied, "his hands are far too rheumatic and stiff to do such delicate work. But I am confident that here we will find our man."

As we sat silently sipping our tea, I slowly processing all that I had just learned, we noticed a young couple emerging from the general store across the way. The young man looked to be about courting age, and the young girl with him certainly knew it. She was all flirtations and ribbons and bows, and he was quite intoxicated. She was carrying a small wrapped package; she seemed to coyly thank him for it and departed, leaving him looking longingly after her.

"See them?" Lestrade asked. I replied that I did.

"That is the son of our shady-looking proprietor. The boys and I have a feeling that it is he who has the light fingers and the hankering for extra cash."

I nodded appreciatively. "Aahhh," I said, trying to sound knowing. But really, the young man did not at all look the criminal type. He didn't look like an angel either, but I never would have pegged him as our thief.

"We have a plan," Lestrade continued conspiratorially, "to send through a package with marked bills and then tempt him with the offer of expensive snuff for sale. We think he'll pilfer a bit to buy the stuff."

"Clever," I said, a bit distractedly, and then, an idea suddenly forming, "but don't you think he might be more vulnerable to a feminine approach?"

"What do you mean, Miss Watson?" he asked suspiciously.

"Well," I said, "I noticed how easily this girl wrapped him around her little finger. I mean, he obviously bought her whatever was in the package."

A gleam appeared in Lestrade's eye. "Go on," he said intently.

"It seems," I continued, "that if he were to be convinced that he could win her heart with a certain expensive gift - fine perfume, perhaps - he would go to great lengths to be able to afford it."

"I suppose that might be true," he said slowly, "although we really don't have anyone on the force who could convincingly pose as a purveyor of the stuff."

"Oh, do let me!" I cried, a bit too loudly; and then, more softly and better composed, "it takes a woman's touch, and I would know just what to do. And after all, it was my idea...and it's not the least bit dangerous!" I finished with my best, most convincing flourish.

"Really, Miss Watson, this is most unusual. I don't want you to think that your participation in police business can become a regular occurence."

I looked down meekly and said that of course, I understood. More things had been lost in Switzerland than a single kindly man. A large part of my life was now irretrievably gone; and perhaps the time had come to face that fact.

I don't know if there were tears in my eyes, but in a moment I heard "Allright then, maybe just this once more." I looked up gratefully, more grateful at that moment than he could know.

Well, to make a long story short, I was equipped the next day with a lovely satin-lined mahogany box filled with fine French perfumes, and was sent into the general store as a traveling saleswoman at a time when the young man was known to be manning the store's counter. I did my best to tempt him to purchase a few small bottles for the store, and when he modestly demurred, claiming that the people of the town had no use for such finery, I asked him slyly if there wasn't some young lady in his life who might be much impressed by a gift of the most sublime parfum Paris had to offer? He turned quite red and stammered that no, there was noone. I smiled, asked if I might borrow his handkerchief for a moment, dabbed it with Eau d'Extase, and handed it back to him with my business card. I told him that I would be in town for one more day and that I would stop by tomorrow before my coach and see if he had changed his mind.

I left feeling pretty confident that this young man was wrapped around my little finger, too.

I returned the next day, and, almost sadly, beheld the young man beckoning excitedly to me. As expected, he had come across some funds and was now desirous of purchasing some of the lovely French perfume.

I tell you honestly, Dear Reader, I almost didn't sell it to him. His young face looked so earnest and eager. But then I remembered that this was no one-time, extenuating-circumstances type of crime. This sheepish young man was already an accomplished mail thief. So, I sold him the little bottle of deadly bait, took his proferred money, and left, disgusted with the whole matter.

Lestrade was pleased, and the bills were actually some of the marked ones that the police had inserted into the latest packet of mail. Immediately, the detectives entered the store and arrested the genuinely surprised and confused young person. I looked on from my hiding place behind a tree and shook my head sadly - once again, no awareness of culpability.

It was here that Lestrade and I parted ways once again, he with the box of perfumes and a mail thief, and I with a sense of wonder at the young man's obliviousness.

This story has an interesting epilogue, which actually does something to redeem the theory of physiognomy. Although I had been forbidden from the halls of Scotland Yard, I was not entirely without sources of information regarding what went on there. A charwoman employed at the Yard, whose daughter had born a healthy baby boy under my care, was also a patient of mine, and when she and her offspring would come to my practice, we would often catch up on the latest police-related gossip.

She told me that the young man from the Whitney-on-Wye general store had made a full confession and had been sentenced to three years in prison. Much of the stolen money was recovered and returned to its rightful owners. My well-connected friend told me about some poor pensioners of her acquaintance who had been close to living in the streets as a result of the thefts; when I heard that, I determined not to press for restoration of my little token gift from my sister.

But that was not all. Just when everyone thought that the matter was settled, the mail pilfering started again. The same method was used, and on the same delivery route, and it was quickly ascertained that the new thief was operating from the same store. From the relatively poor quality of the new work, and a material witness who claimed to have seen the new thief at work, it was concluded that the pinched-faced father was now at it, perhaps thinking that no two bolts of lightning ever strike in exactly the same place. Scotland Yard detectives arrested him and his case was sent to trial, but the material witness, upon whom much of the case depended, disappeared, leaving the court no choice but to acquit the old man.

The End.


End file.
